


Persuasion

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Lestrade Is Patient, M/M, Mycroft-centric, Pining, Romance, Seduction, There's Something About Mycroft . . .
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Lestrade woos Mycroft patiently.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persuasion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marysutherland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/gifts).



> _Originally posted under old pseud under the title "Worth Waiting For;" reposting under new._

Mycroft's hands tightened around the sheaf of documents in his lap, but he stopped reading as his car approached the iron-gated entrance to his immaculately groomed town home. He searched the pavement, the small faded green and brown patches on either side of the gate, the winding driveway beyond.

Nothing.

No one.

Mycroft's breathing halted, and his abdomen clenched as if he had been punched.

_He isn't there. He isn't there._

He had been there every night for more than a month. Now he wasn't.

Mycroft asked his driver to stop for a moment. He looked into the frozen moonless night, hoping to see a shadow, a few white clouds of breath that would indicate Lestrade had not given up yet. Had not finally abandoned his foolish courting of Mycroft and moved on to someone who could and would respond. But it seemed that Lestrade had had enough waiting.

Waiting for Mycroft to say yes to lunch or dinner or tea.

Waiting for Mycroft to answer a phone call or a text or an email.

Waiting for the one night when Mycroft might stop his car to wave or speak or even to allow Lestrade inside the iron gates.

Mycroft lowered the car window to let the winter wind burn his face. He needed to feel an intense sensation just then. Something other than the hollow ache for which there were no words.

_How do you find words to describe losing something or someone you never had?_

Mycroft admonished himself. He must cease this absurd anguish over nothing. Literally _nothing_. There were a multitude of good reasons for not becoming involved with someone like Greg Lestrade. Someone outside his narrow circle of power and prestige; someone of a different class, a different family history, and a very different view of the world. He had considered the situation, analyzed it, and made his decision long ago. Dispassionate analysis, political calculation, and logic always ruled Mycroft's actions--even in affairs of the heart.

It was not logical, not sensible to fall for Greg Lestrade. The man had a sharp mind and he applied it well, but Mycroft's research revealed that the D.I. was one of those people who let _hunches_ and _feelings_ get in the way of good politics far too often. Mycroft understood that in police work that sort of reliance on instinct over reason often proved useful and brought promotions and commendations. That certainly was the case for Sherlock's colleague.

But no matter how respectable or even admirable a man Lestrade might be, Mycroft had promised himself he would not become involved with Lestrade or anyone else in his brother's tiny circle of friends, and Mycroft was not about to break this promise just because he felt . . . Well, never mind what he felt. He preferred to keep his feelings, his heart safely tucked away and out of harm's way.

Mycroft dismissed the driver and let himself into his dark, empty house.

Of course, the staff had all left early, he reminded himself, for Anthea's birthday party. He knew he should put in an appearance, but . . . perhaps she would forgive him if he took her out for a special luncheon tomorrow instead. He just couldn't face festivities right now.

Mycroft removed his coat and collapsed onto the elaborately painted Tibetan bench in the foyer, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands, thinking perhaps this wretched feeling would pass if he just took a few minutes to breathe deeply and sit still.

Eyes fluttering closed, he allowed himself to recall the feel of Lestrade's powerful grip, his hot, coffee-soaked breath, the click of his teeth as they touched Mycroft's before Mycroft had, in a moment of weakness, opened his mouth and let the Inspector's tongue enter. Although it had been months ago, Mycroft perfectly recalled the pressure of Lestrade's fingers--thick, cool, gentle--caressing Mycroft's neck. A thumb pressing gently upward to coax out a moan, which Lestrade immediately swallowed in another kiss. Lestrade's mouth--it was so--it was so _persuasive_ , thought Mycroft.

Mycroft's skin warmed and his pulse quickened whenever he let that memory surface, just as he was warming and quickening now, seeing Lestrade sitting there.

 _No._ That was an _apparition_ , a trick his mind was playing.

Mycroft stared across the foyer to see a square-shouldered figure sitting on the staircase, watching him. Waiting. His eyes were deep and dark--a bit tired. His silver hair reflected the soft, sparkling light of the chandelier, and his grey overcoat was a puddle on the floor next to his feet.

Mycroft wanted to believe the man was really there--a few feet away--smiling and extending his hand. But how could it be? Mycroft stood up and stepped nearer, trying to ensure that his polished wingtip shoes made as little noise as possible on the marble floor. He feared disturbing his own daydream.

"What are you doing here, Inspector?"

"Waiting for you." The man dropped his hand and stood up, but did not move toward Mycroft. "I'm waiting for your answer, Mycroft. You know you're taking a bloody long time."

Mycroft was shaken and unsure now, so he replied honestly. "I don't understand. I already gave you my answer." He paused, uncomfortable with speaking the words so bluntly, but knowing he had to get them out or he might be lost. "I said _no_."

Lestrade smiled more broadly and shoved his hands into his pockets, stepping backwards up a few steps. "Oh yes, I remember. But that's not the answer I want. So, I'm waiting for the right answer. I'm a very patient man. Ask your brother."

Lestrade looked at Mycroft for another moment, cocking his head quizzically. Then he stepped lightly down the stairs and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. Mycroft could feel the scrape of stubble and smell coffee again--mixed this time with a pleasant cologne.

Lestrade turned and walked slowly up the stairs toward Mycroft's private quarters, shouting down when he reached the landing, "It's been a long day, Mycroft. I want you to take your time getting to your answer--as long as it's _yes_ \--but I think I'll go have a little rest while you're thinking. Come on up whenever you're ready. First room on the left is yours?"

Mycroft found himself unable to answer just then. Or speak at all. Or use any of his higher-level analytical skills. But, he told himself that reason now dictated that he must go upstairs and show Gregory Lestrade the way to the bedroom.

It would be illogical to keep him waiting any longer.

 


End file.
